A Master and his Game
by aleysius
Summary: Dumbledore is playing his last moves, Harry Potter is dealing with love, training and an intense revelation. The war brings with it familiar elements and added intrigue, espionage, torture, betrayal, power plays.


**Prologue **

**June 1996, a few days after the attack at the ministry.**

The man with one day to live was oblivious to his shortened lifespan. His attention was riveted on the sleaze clubs and buxom figures portrayed on the outside walls of the same. His person was clothed in a poor combination of pants too large, shirt too small and a cap too wide, the kind that lauded the city of New York. It was very close to midnight and the streets were still filled with earnest individuals looking to party into the wee hours. The moon shone on the cars lining both sides of the main road while music echoed and overlapped from the speakers of one club onto another. He passed the St. Lawrence Boulevard and turned right onto Clark street. It was the mistake that would cost him his life.

Rene Levesque was a politician in Quebec, that province of Canada which is predominantly French. Two major boulevards in Quebec, one in Quebec City and one in Montreal are named after him. It was in between the Rene Levesque boulevard of the latter city and the street of St. Catherine, both running parallel to each other, on Rue Clark, perpendicular to the afore mentioned paths, that the wretched soul found himself 5 minutes later, in a dark alley by the road covered in his own blood staring at an abominable creature, half man, half dog.

He heard the man-beast rasp something that sounded like "You are the first of many" then passed out.

At a ten past the midnight hour, 37 year old Michael Vaudreuil was driving around in his Intrepid Squad Car, listening to the cute French station radio operator and wishing he was spending that present moment with her rather than on his beat training a rookie cadet. He was heading east on the one way St. Catherine street and turned left on Rue Clark. He almost passed the unconscious individual if it hadn't been for his rookie partner. As it would later turn out, his involvement would give him the impetus needed to ask the radio operator on a night out. What happened after is really nobody's business.

"Arret ce quoi ce" Stop, What's that? Remarked the 23 year old.

"Huh. I don't see anything"

"Non, Arret, Arret"

"Ok, I'll stop but get this clear, in my car, only English do you understand" rasped Vaudreuil.

He had been raised in the largely Anglo-phone community of Hudson, Quebec, west of Montreal on the way to English Ontario. Although his father was French, he had been largely influence by his English mother and more so after the divorce. While he retained a fair command of the French language, his political views infused in him an air of defiance for all things French, unless of course he was in the presence of the Station Commander, Rouleau.

Vaudreuil pulled the Intrepid over the right side of the road and stepped out quickly. For all his reservations, political and social, Michael Vaudreuil was a career policeman and a good one at that. He was meticulous and always did everything by the book, which was not saying he was exceptional, but wasn't saying he was useless either.

His rookie assistant however, took his sweet time, even pulling out his gun. Against protocol but nerves render certain things like bowel movement and rules quite useless.

"Put that away" grunted Vaudreuil in a quiet but forceful whisper. "Everything all right there?" ca va?"

The figure didn't move. Upon closer inspection, the two policemen found the individual to be in his mid twenties, his clothes were covered in what looked like a lot of his own blood and deep gash in his upper right shoulder. He was shivering and kept repeating "friggin' beast bit me" over and over again. Afraid that the man might lapse into unconsciousness and considering the blood loss, even a coma, Officer Vaudreuil hastened the co-operation of the cocky ambulance despatch in charge by threatening certain sensitive body parts. He had seemingly, failed to take note of the accent spoken by the bitten individual. In any case, the words had been few, the pace had been quick and the individual stopped talking altogether, shortly after Vaudreuil called despatch.

Half an hour later, the ambulance pulled up at 1650 Cedar, the labyrinthine series of structures that formed Montreal's General hospital. These brown dyed buildings housed the facilities since as early as 1822 that provided Montreal with its largest hospital.

Racing into the emergency department Officer Vaudreuil was radioed by his partner that he had spoken to the duty officer and was cordoning off the crime scene as they spoke. 'Mike' had purposely left his partner in charge as practice, he intended to rush straight back once the formalities were complete at the Hospital. He hadn't had a person die on his watch if he could help it and he wasn't going to let it start then. The many deaths he had witnessed through the years was put down to factors beyond his control. Mike liked to sleep easy.

The first thing that is done when a patient with heavy blood loss is brought into a hospital is to stop the bleeding by any means possible, from a clean rag to medical gauze and swabs. Disinfecting the site is the second priority. Ordinarily a wound, one even as deep as that on the patient, in the upper shoulder does not constitute a fatal laceration. As the jugular vein hadn't seemed to have been penetrated, the doctor conveyed a first glance optimistic diagnosis to the Officer. It could also have been that the good doctor was simply not comfortable with pushy policemen, anything to get him away.

"Hi, This is Mike here, Listen I got a situation here" related Vaudreuil on the phone to the duty officer back at NPS 20, his 'precinct'. Although the rookie had performed the protocol required duty of informing the duty officer of the events during the ride to the General hospital, Vaudreuil was expected to give his own account being the senior.

Montreal has 49 Neighbourhood Police Stations that are further squeezed into 39 command units falling under the purview of either of four regional services (North, South, East and West) these Neighbourhood Police Stations, similar to the American precincts or the British Constabularies, form the backbone of the Policing structure. It was to NPS 20 that Mike Vaudreuil was attached. Having that part of Downtown Montreal consisting of the high-rise office blocks and two of Montreal's prominent Universities, Concordia and McGill, and the cities, numerous and famous clubs within its area of watch, NPS 20 was kept rather busy most nights.

After relating the events and grabbing a Tim Hortons coffee, Officer Vaudreuil went back to the patient, now stitched up and laid up on a bed in one of the Hospitals quad-bedrooms.

He was still in a semi-critical state but was awake now. A promise of only a few questions had secured Mike the minutes he had now.

"Hello, Sir, I'm Officer Mike Vaudreuil"

The patient nodded but didn't say anything.

"We'd like to takea statement from you, then we can begin investigating as soon as right now. Also is there anybody we should call?"

When the man spoke, Officer Vaudreuil finally realised what had been nagging him for the past hour.

"I'm frightfully banged up, I'm afraid" mumbled the gentleman, in a crisp London Accent. London, England not London Ontario if you please.

Even before he asked, Vaudreuil knew what the answer would be. And he dreaded it.

"Are you a British citizen, sir?"

"Why, Yes I am" he replied.

Inwardly, Vaudreuil was cursing the fact that he was on beat that night and groaned at the implications. Outwardly, his training took over. He was hoping it was one of the many immigrants to Canada from England but a citizen at least.

"Let's start from the top sir"

For a good ten minutes, the gentleman from London, England related his adventures leading up until his assault.

'This will have to go higher than me', Vaudreuil sighed for his own consumption. Partly, he was glad to have the case off his chest as he assumed it would be and partly scared that such an incident had happened on his watch. Anything could happen now. What he found unusual was the fact that the man kept referring to the dog that bit him as a beast. Upon clarifying…

"Well, it was this huge dog or wolf and it wasn't really the size of any I'd seen so I reckon 'beast' is a good name for it" He provided a decent description of the grey beast/dog/wolf that had attacked him.

Shortly thereafter, the Montreal Policeman bid goodbye and said that they would be back. Ordinarily an investigator or two would definitely be called in, seeing as it involved an foreign citizen. But as luck would have it, the investigator assigned to NPS 20, one Claude Trudeau (no relation to that great statesman of the same name) was away and would only return later that day.

Officer Mike Vaudreuil duly filled his report and related the events to his Commander at the Station.

Patrick Rouleau, Commander, NPS 20 sat across from Vaudreuil and for the most part was silent, which was to his credit really. He then commended Mike on his work and got down to locating the number of his contact at the British High Commission at 1000 De La Gauchetière. He found it just after 4 am and sent off a voice mail that he knew would only be received at 8 30 am, or thereabouts.  
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The sun rose early, as it usually did in that part of the world. If one stopped and listened they would have heard the common sounds of yawns, dripping water, screaming infants and revved engines. The sheer speed of life in a metropolis numbering upward of 8 million citizens, allowed not for the enlightenment that a self-paced living brought. Had they stopped for a moment, the silence might have allowed the chanting to carry through but then again, perhaps not.

The economic capital of the Far East was on the verge of another day.

A few hours into the morning, in the midst of a million cars and 16 million ears, a man apparated with a distinct 'POP', at the corner of Akasaka and a lesser known rubble pathway, near the renowned Asakusa temple in the Taito ward.

Tokyo is made up of 23 wards and while the neon districts of this famed city are popular with their replica Empire States building or Times Square, it was the anonymity that Taito provided which made it more appealing. At least, on that day and to that person. Perhaps that fact that he had a meeting just around the corner helped picking that spot that much easier.

A small boy who was playing nearby was startled by the noise and looked up. He saw a tall, majestic and very unusual figure walk toward him. The youth recoiled having had many a lesson in keeping his nose clean. The tall one walked past him paying no heed. He continued on until he reached a small apartment block. He stopped and looked around casually, yet at the same time, his sharp eyes missed no detail.

The hanging clothes on the line, the vendor making his way to the busier and more profitable parts of town, the busy fathers, mothers and school children. Assured that he was unobserved, he turned into the apartment block and approached the far recesses of the lobby. The apartment block was a decrepit structure and there was no one about.

The establishment had a peculiar odour to it, not unlike that of damp wood. There were 2 doorways leading away from the lobby into the murky interior of the building. Right across the solitary table was a staircase spiralling upward. Under the staircase was an alcove devoid of light.

Peering into the darkness, the tall one pulled out his wand, muttering something inaudible. Had any muggle been watching these events, he would have, in all probability fainted, that wasn't the case however. The streak of light from the end of the wand briefly illuminated the lobby before the previous state of sombre lighting was restored. The man looked ahead at nothing in particular before turning and making himself comfortable on the floor.

Moments passed and patient as he was, the person on the floor started to wonder. Just then, he heard a raspy voice call out to him. He turned and saw a sight which would have turned even the toughest person pale.

A medium built oriental with greyish skin, short hair, bony limbs and lifeless eyes stared at him.

"Dumbledore, come…Master has been expecting you"

Albus Dumbledore, in his perennial efforts to lighten any situation would have greeted the guard otherwise, but today was not an ordinary day. Looking over his crescent spectacles, Dumbledore fell in line, two steps behind and to the left, nodded to indicate that they proceed. They ascended stairs that looked ready to fall apart, much like the rest of the establishment. They stopped on the first floor next to a table littered with bottles of varying features and Dumbledore was ordered to pick and drink a particularly nasty looking concoction. With just the slightest hesitation, the venerable guest swallowed it down.

Sneering, the guard looked as if he hoped Dumbledore would burst into flames. That however did not happen, so they proceeded to up the stairs once again.

Once again they stopped this time in front of a mirror. The guard moved out of sight and Dumbledore looked into the mirror as it seemed the only logical thing to do. The guard never did see what was in the mirror but suddenly Dumbledore jumped into the mirror and was gone. The guard started but relaxed. It was expected, he reasoned.

Inside, Dumbledore's hair was flying in all directions. The strong winds from the sea rose over the cliff and pushed against the three participants of this skewed reality. Dumbledore had his wand out in a flash and stared at the figure of Grindelwald holding an innocent child at the end of his own deathly wand. It took one second for the headmaster to register and place in perspective, the current situation.

"_Expelliarmus_"

The strike went astray as Grindelwald moved with the agility of a cat.

"_Avada Kedavra_" The curse was mouthed while Dumbledore was blindsided with the body of the child. It clipped his shoulder where the robe started smouldering instantly.

This couldn't go on for too long. "_Valitumor_" Dumbledore aimed at the slight protrusion of Grindelwald's head.

What happened next was unclear but Dumbledore found himself facing the mirror again which looked quite ordinary. He turned sideways and saw the pale-faced guard straighten with a distinctly regretful leer.

Shrugging, the guard motioned that they were done and took out a feather from the interiors of his robe. The present dissolved and they found themselves in a courtyard strewn with leaves.

Dumbledore looked around the courtyard of the temple that he had only read and heard about. Behind him was an ornate gate made of wrought iron. The walls rose twenty feet high, and the four visible corners of the courtyard had what looked like mini-lighthouses. They were in fact guardhouses. At the far end of the courtyard directly across from the gate in front of which they were standing was a large wooden door which was shut. Again this door was built into a beautiful gate. He understood that they were standing in the outer courtyard of the entire structure.

Pale-face motioned towards the door in front of them. As they walked towards it, Dumbledore couldn't help but wonder how this meeting would proceed. He had been told that his admiration for the Abbott was well reciprocated and he couldn't bring himself to believe that. In his mind, there was a vast gap between them and not just in age. The Abbott had been a respected and feared nemesis of the dark forces when Dumbledore was still a boy, albeit the identity and indeed existence of the Abbott was kept highly secret. Dumbledore heard of him only because of his own unique nature.

The creaking of the large doors brought the headmaster out of his reverie. They opened with the assistance of two silken clad monks and revealed an awe inspiring picture. There were 150 perhaps 200 other monks sitting cross legged on the dusty floor of the inner courtyard facing away from the door Dumbledore had just entered from and towards a high throne inhabited by a solitary and diminutive figure, at least in comparison with Albus Dumbledore. Then again, most people were slight in comparison to the headmaster. At a gesture from the diminutive one, the entire courtyard rose as one and the Abbott made his way towards Dumbledore while the latter did the same. They met halfway and stared hard at each other for what seemed like ages. Finally they bowed to each other and embraced.

"How is the world treating you Professor?"

After a short pause Dumbledore replied "It is beginning to wear me down, I stand upright as would you and yet my walls are not strong enough"

"Hmm, take a deep breath, come let us dine before we discuss other matters"

With that the Abbott motioned towards the interior of the temple behind them, the congregation of monks sat back down. The two silken clad monks lead the pair towards a room of small proportions. Two place mats had been laid out on the floor. The single table in between the place mats had two bowls of rice, some water and two sea food dishes. They sat down to eat in silence.

Forty minutes later, the Abbott motioned towards the wooden sliding doors.

They stepped out into the approaching noon. A moist breeze was heading in from the east and the pregnant skies were aching for a release. The dust on the compound lay still.

"Notice that the stiffest tree is most easily cracked, while the bamboo or willow survives by bending with the wind."

Dumbledore looked around for the tree the Abbott was referring to but the latter waved his hand signalling there was no tree.

"As much as I detest violence, I see that wizards or not, we are human and are governed by the same psychology. We ignore logic and respond to force, most of us anyway." The Abbott started coughing violently, yet shooed away his guests helpful advance. "Age takes its own liberties nowadays"

In an instant the Abbott's face was restored to an expression of calmness.

"A truly great human fighter and one in touch with his own self once told me about the willow and the stiffest tree, a line that I repeat often. You must keep that in mind Dumbledore. It is sad that our lives move so fast that only danger forces us to meet."

This last line was said with a twinkle in the Abbott's eye, one that Dumbledore recognised.

"Indeed, it is sad but we shall soon have ample time to talk, we should try and push that moment far from us for when that moment comes, we will have nothing to do but talk."

They looked at each other as only the wisest men could and a silence descended for a short while.

Then Dumbledore spoke "You must know what I am here for, the young Harry Potter is still trying to find himself and collectively we are trying to find the solution to this madness. But the Order is not a force that can fight the Death Eaters on level ground. And young as Harry might be, he alone holds the key to peace. But he needs to be taught."

"I see what you are saying Dumbledore but are you sure that is the only way left. There will be no turning back and the potential power will be immense. You came to me 4 years ago anticipating something of this very nature. Perhaps you had made up your mind then or…." The Abbott trailed off.

"There seems not an alternative other than this, I have given it much thought. The rest is up to you and rest assured, there are no chances of his turning." Dumbledore then stayed silent and allowed the Abbott his thoughts.

After a short pause.

"I expected you to ask this of me and I read the scriptures once again this morning. The situation certainly supports your intentions but I must warn you, this boy, he is…trustworthy??yes? Could it not be just the protection of love that made him special?"

Dumbledore smiled and shook his head sadly.

"I see. The time has come old friend. In that case, I must ask you to prepare the boy accordingly before anything else."

"Indeed, that I certainly will" The Professor and the Abbott smiled the smiles of old men. There was no turning back.


End file.
